


Beyond the Reach of Art

by teprometo



Series: 2014 Summer Pornathon [5]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Banter, Canon Era, F/M, First Time, Team Gluttony, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-15 05:12:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2216982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teprometo/pseuds/teprometo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isolde had just finished braiding her wet hair and was on her way back to camp when a strong arm wrapped around her front and the familiar coolness of a blade pressed against her throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond the Reach of Art

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2014 Summer Pornathon week five challenge, [Snatch](http://summerpornathon.livejournal.com/105188.html).
> 
>  _From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part,_  
>  _And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art._  
>  \- Alexander Pope, Essay on Criticism. Part i. Line 152.

“I’m going to visit a tree,” Isolde said to her men, all of whom looked at least half-dead from the previous night’s ale. “Then I’m going to bathe, and I expect camp to be broken by the time I return.”

They responded in grunts and groans, but half of them were already on their feet by the time she got her boots on.

The last few days had been uneventful. They were in a quiet stretch of forest in Nemeth, and the worst they’d gotten was a rowdy wild boar, which had made for several very satisfying meals. Perhaps Isolde had gotten complacent, or perhaps she was just as groggy as her men—whatever the case, she had just finished braiding her wet hair and was on her way back to camp when a strong arm wrapped around her front and the familiar coolness of a blade pressed against her throat.

“I’m unarmed,” she said, which wasn’t true.

“I know.” The person’s voice was low and wet against Isolde’s ear. “This is your knife.”

Isolde shifted her legs together and found that, yes, the knife was missing from her boot.

“Sneaky,” she said, straining her neck away from the blade. “What do you want?”

“I’ve been watching you. You’re Isolde, renowned smuggler.”

Isolde chuckled. “I didn’t know I was famous. And you are?”

“Name’s Tristan. I’ll just ….”

The arm around Isolde’s chest slackened, and she felt fingers sliding hot down the front of her trousers. He made quick work of the strings that secured her purse between her legs, bulging like a half-hard cock.

“With tits like those, no one would ever believe you’re a man,” Tristan said, voice rough like this was foreplay.

And maybe it was, a little bit, because Isolde was feeling distinctly damp and tingly, but _no one_ was allowed to touch her gold. She reached back between his legs to squeeze his balls and found … nothing. The knife slackened in his hand, and she turned in his grip.

“Are you a eunuch?” she blurted out. Tristan looked like she’d gelded him herself, his handsome face pinched. “It’s all right if you are.”

Isolde steadied Tristan’s hand, leaving the knife in his grasp but easing his arm down to his side. She peeled away from him slowly, lifted her shirt and showed him the scar that marked her destroyed womb.

“Poison arrow,” she said simply.

Tristan’s fingers brushed over the mottled skin, tracing the dark poison-dyed veins up, her shirt lifting higher, exposing her until the marks stopped, just a beat away from her heart. His touch felt like fire cauterising her wounds, painful and necessary. His knuckles brushed the underside of her breast, and Isolde’s gasp was loud against the snow-muted forest.

“How did you survive?” Tristan said, voice quiet. He pulled his hand away, but Isolde caught it and placed his palm to her flesh, eased his thumb over her nipple and moaned into it.

“Magic,” she said. “Druids.”

Isolde heard the gentle thud of the knife hitting the ground, and she pushed Tristan back against a tree, her mouth on his before he could say anything else about her injury. He cupped both of her breasts, slotted a leg between her thighs and let her rub against him like a wildcat in need of a good fucking.

She moaned loudly into his mouth, a warning for anyone who might happen across them. Just as no one was allowed to touch her gold, no one was allowed to interfere with her pursuit of climax. Tristan moved his hands from her breasts to her arse, slipping them down the back of her trousers and pressing one finger against her hole. It was enough to make Isolde shudder apart.

Soaked through and satisfied, Isolde said, “How do you—I mean, can you—”

“I’m not a eunuch,” Tristan said. He took Isolde’s hand, guiding it slowly down the front of his trousers.

“Oh,” Isolde said, feeling the slick skin between Tristan’s legs, brushing her fingers over luscious folds and finding his opening.

“I’m not a woman,” Tristan said as Isolde’s fingers slipped into his wetness.

“No need to state the obvious,” Isolde said, getting Tristan’s whole cunt cradled in her hand. “Besides, I’m not attracted to women.” She crooked her fingers inside him hard.

Tristan’s kiss was hot and needy, and Isolde finger-fucked him until he came, his laughter impossible to resist, full of joy and maybe a bit of gratitude.


End file.
